


The Undying

by Morgan Yu (morganology)



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Alfred doesn't die, Alfred/Uhtred, During/After S3 E9 events, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Resolved Sexual Tension, these two give me life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganology/pseuds/Morgan%20Yu
Summary: Without Alfred, Uhtred could not ignore the fact that he would be a Dane, through and through. Yet, the fact that all it took was one man to question who he was at his core, Dane or Saxon, unnerved him to the point where he started to doubt himself. This incredible, God-fearing man who was sat before him, weak as ever, yet his legacy raged around him and gave him the presence of a lion. A lion of England.And Gods, how he loved this man. His King. Alfred.Alternative ending to 3.09, but everything before that is canon. Rated M for eventual smut.
Relationships: Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 21
Kudos: 74





	1. Alfred, King of Wessex

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't wrote anything in years, but after seeing the tension between these two I am completely obsessed with them. And since there's a lack of content of these two, I thought I'd share my two cents on what a happier ending to Season 3 would have been for me. Enjoy!

Tears dripped from Uhtred's face as he grasped onto the King's hand. How ironic, that although Alfred, King of Wessex was surely dying, he would be Uhtred's anchor once more. He had always been aware of the King's ailments, as had most of Wessex and England alike, yet he had never thought that he would be certain that he was to die. Alfred had been playing with fire for years; defeating the Danes was one fire that he had a duty to tackle, yes, but the other fire was the sickness that had left him frail of body and health.

_But never frail of mind._

Alfred's slender, pale fingers gently drifted over Uhtred's hand, shaking but determined; strong with the desire of an England, and strong with the desire to rectify his mistakes. Uhtred slowly raised his eyes to meet Alfred's face, taking in what he could see of him from across the table. The clothes he once filled were hanging limply from his frame, almost as if the very fabric itself had decided to give up hope. The dark circles underneath his thick lashes were proof enough. It was like looking at a dead man. Uhtred's chest ached.

Alfred's eyes were cast down, fixated on their intertwined hands or, perhaps, the written formal pardon beneath them. Uhtred was never able to understand what was going on inside the King's head, and it would not be totally unexpected if Alfred were to reverse the pardon he wrote in a matter of seconds, as such was just the way he was. Unpredictable. Calculating. Elements that make a dangerous enemy, or friend.

"Lord, I-"

Uhtred mentally cursed as a silent sob escaped him, cutting off the rest of his words. Not that he knew what to say, regardless. What does one say to a dying man, no, but a dying King? By Gods, _his_ dying King, who had finally decided to apologise to him and pardon him despite everything? And at no cost. For once, Uhtred of Bebbanburg did not have to give more than what he received. Just a little too late.

Alfred raised his eyes to meet his, a blue fire in his eyes that occasionally made its presence known behind the usual cold, iced-over waters. Uhtred found it startling, but beautiful. He had... always found Alfred to be beautiful.

Uhtred would not admit to anyone else, but ever since he first saw Alfred's form sat in that chair in his library, mulling over his writings during that very first moment when Beocca introduced them, the King had always been somewhere in his mind. During the great battles they faced, at Ethandun, in reclaiming Winchester, on the slave ship... it had always been Alfred. Uhtred could not ignore the magnetic pull this man possessed, stronger than any woman's influence, Gods, even stronger than _Skade's_ influence--  
How he had cherished the adrenaline that coarsed through his veins as he charged into battle, knowing that it was for Alfred whom he fought, the King of Wessex, and for Alfred's beautiful idea of an England-

Gods, Alfred had made him a _Saxon_. He still held Danish customs and culture to heart, as they were a part of him now, yet so too was Alfred. Without Alfred, Uhtred could not ignore the fact that he would be a Dane, through and through. Yet, the fact that all it took was one man to question who he was at his core, Dane or Saxon, unnerved him to the point where he started to doubt himself. This incredible, God-fearing man who was sat before him, weak as ever, yet his legacy raged around him and gave him the presence of a lion. A lion of England. 

The King's eyes were still fixed on his, and Uhtred became suddenly aware of how much time his train of thought had let him pass by. He felt a twinge of heat rise to his cheeks when it became apparent that they were staring at each other for some time now, and the warrior lowered his gaze back onto their interlocked hands.

Alfred sniffed, withdrew his hands and looked off towards the library's window. "Although there is still much to be done, it would appear that I am out of time to do these things."

Uhtred looked up sharply, prompting Alfred to look back at him. "Lord?"

Uhtred didn't want Alfred to die. To accept death and to embrace it when the time came was what any man should rightfully do, unless it would not land him in the halls of Valhalla or, he supposed, heaven. He did not want the King to die, and yet something told him that there would be peace awaiting him wherever he would go. If Alfred left this moment with him, he may never get to see him again. And the thought dug swords into Uhtred's heart.

"The idea of an England is in God's hands now, albeit Edward should be the one to commandeer it. I pray he does not wander from the path-" the King's hand squeezed Uhtred's own, "But should you choose not to join him, Uhtred, it will be not you nor I who have failed, but Edward himself."

Uhtred suspected that Alfred was more afraid of the unknown than anything else, including the fate of his son. There was a darkness within Alfred's eyes now, as if part of those crystal blue waters had iced over again. How Uhtred wished to break through that ice permanently, to be able to understand this man who had spent the majority of his life under a strong guise of his own making - a King's suit, if you will. Any outburst of emotion from Alfred, Uhtred had always welcomed, loved even - it was the stoic, expressionless demeanour that the King wore that scared him most.  


He would be a liar if he denied the many nights he had spent, under the cover of darkness, imagining what would happen if he were to break this demeanour of Alfred's with a kiss, to break the seal and let the floodgates open and to enjoy the King in his entirety, to feel those quick, skilled fingers touch his bare skin, to lay kisses all over Alfred's form until he was a blushing, passionate mess--

Alfred's leg brushed against his own under the table, yanking Uhtred back from his thoughts and earning a gasp in response. Alfred's expression changed from dark to amused in the blink of an eye, the previous coldness gone.

"Did I startle you, Uhtred?" A ghost of a smile played upon the King's lips. "You do not seem to be... fully present." 

Uhtred could feel his heart accelerating in his chest. The King was dying, but he was still Alfred.

"You will always be my King, Lord, and it has been an honour to serve you."

And it was true. Since that fateful day they met, since that day Alfred agreed to march on Aesces Hill, since he was hung up in a cage, he had his sword. Despite what he said to anyone. And Alfred had always been able to see right through him. Despite what he said. 

Alfred shakily rose, using the table to steady himself as Uhtred automatically rose in case he needed his aid. Alfred rose a hand to stop him, and began to walk towards the warrior slowly, his expression unreadable. Something about this expression concerned Uhtred, and he instinctively took a few steps back until he found a stone wall blocking his way. The King smiled slightly as he hobbled his way over to him, until they were so close that Uhtred could count the lines on Alfred's face, could take in his smell: a mixture of ink, sandalwood, and fresh parchment. Uhtred could barely hear the world around him over the sound of his drumming heart, a state of confusion on his features.

"Did I hear you correctly, or is the fever making me hallucinate?" Alfred's voice was low, almost husky, and although inappropriate Uhtred could not help the feeling rising in his stomach.

He could feel the heat radiating from the other man, his eyes never leaving those intelligent oceans of blue. Alfred leaned towards his ear, his breath ticklish. Uhtred froze in anticipation, not wanting to alarm the already frail King, but increasingly eager to see where this would lead.

The King whispered into the warrior's ear, his breath hot against his skin. Uhtred almost passed out.

"You call me your King when I am days, if not hours, from death. Ensure you do not forget that when I am gone."

Alfred's trembling fingers lightly touched Uhtred's lips and lingered there for a second or two, tears threatening to fall from his eyes, only withdrawing when shuffling came from outside the room. Alfred stepped back and resumed his original place at the table.

"You may take your leave," Alfred's commanding tone was back, his expression back to cold, save for the lingering tears. And with it went the Alfred he craved, the Alfred he loved.

Uhtred was confused, and disappointed. Confused because the King seemed to have implied that he wanted Uhtred to continue seeing him as King even after he passed, and disappointed because there was still so much left unsaid. And unwritten. He would have found Alfred's possessiveness amusing and flattering had he not been in the condition he was in.

"Alfred, I will return to you with my answer regarding the care of Edward," Uhtred promised, using what was left of his willpower to raise his voice to Alfred's volume.

The King simply nodded, but a feeling of uncertainty filled the air. It was thick and it was hindering Uhtred's ability to think rationally, and so hesitantly he left Alfred's library, his lips bittersweet from where he touched him.


	2. Uhtred, Warrior of Wessex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was not ready to die, but if God wanted to meet him now, there was nothing that could be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the love on the first chapter! I’m aware that this fandom isn’t particularly big, especially supporters of Uhtred/Alfred, but it was near impossible for me to /not/ make content of these two. I absolutely adore their dynamic.
> 
> I’m aware that this chapter is a bit shorter, but I’ve added in the potential for a 4th chapter instead of just three. You’ll get your angsty smut, don’t worry.

The minutes bled into hours, into hot, sticky and nauseating hours as Alfred could feel the life leaving his body. Aelswith was talking about something, although he could not see her, and her words transformed into a surreal drone that he feared would accompany him all the way to Heaven. 

He was not ready to die, but if God wanted to meet him now, there was nothing that could be done. Edward would continue his legacy, and the dream of an England, with Uhtred by his side as he had agreed just hours prior.

_Hours? Days?_

He could feel his life blending into one amorphous shape in his headspace, that although his body was dying, his head remained surprisingly clear, despite the voices he could hear through the fog. He could no longer feel his body, move his hands or open his eyes. 

Alfred supposed this is how it ends.

He went, peacefully, open to accept that his time was done despite that little nagging feeling telling him he wasn’t.

And then he saw the form of Iseult through the fog.

The King opened his mouth to speak, but found nothing where his mouth should have been. He was a mind, floating through space. No physical form. He thought he heard a whisper of a woman weeping from somewhere far away. Not important right now.

Iseult. The same Iseult who saved his son, who helped him with his illness. He never got to fully express his gratitude towards her, although he was not certain that God would allow him to.

Iseult seemed to know he wanted to communicate, as she became clearer through the fog, those calm, dark eyes complimenting her warm smile. 

If this was Heaven, Alfred struggled to find sense in how Iseult was here. He felt a twinge of panic as he contemplated the thought that he might be in Hell, but was stopped in his tracks by a feeling of comforting warmth as Iseult spoke.

 _“You are not done yet, Lord. There is still much to do.”_ The voice felt like silk wrapped around his soul.

Alfred tried to speak again, but nothing. Iseult seemed to know what he was asking anyway.

_“No, Lord. This is not your Hell. It is simply a gateway, a road, to peace. But it is not yours to travel down yet.”_

Then she lifted up a hand, and Alfred thought he felt her caress him softly. And then Iseult was gone, and he could feel his body again.

He gasped for air, almost as if his own body was under someone else’s control, and he shot up from where he lay, eyes wide open and shocked.

Where was he? His quarters. His palace. Winchester. Wessex. England.

He felt a warmth over his hand, his eyes shifted into focus, and he turned towards the warmth’s source. A woman. His wife. Aelswith. She was looking at him completely shocked, her face sodden with tears, mouth agape. Alfred blinked and she seemed to snap out of it.

“Alfred... my Lord... you were dead,” the Queen began to shake. “Your heart, it wasn’t beating, but now I can feel it, in your wrist, you’re... alive!”

Alfred raised his other arm instinctively to comfort her, and Aelswith grabbed Alfred and trapped him in an embrace. He could feel wetness on his shoulder.

“It’s a miracle! God has brought you back to us!” She sobbed into Alfred’s shoulder, prompting the doors to burst open and Father Beocca to rush in.

Beocca. A priest. Holy man. A friend.

He looked at Alfred with the same expression Aelswith first had, and then dropped to his knees and put his hands together.

“My Lord... he has done it. Our prayers have been answered!” The priest chanted and rejoiced, followed by a weak, genuine laugh from Aelswith tucked into his shoulder.

Alfred began to smile.

Yes, he was not done yet. There was still much to be done.

-+-

Although Uhtred had sworn to be by Edward’s side upon his succession to the throne, the warrior was very seriously contemplating taking his life upon hearing news of Alfred’s death. The man he loved, who he followed, who he would die for — had died before him. Left him. And that was a drowning, blackening grief unlike any other that Uhtred had ever experienced. The death of his brother, Ragnar, came close, but... this was worse. 

This was like being tossed into a dark, doorless room with no escape. No Alfred to light the way. No resolve, no purpose.

His hands moved to his beloved sword without him being fully aware of it. He held it in his hands, the metal cool to the touch. But not cool enough to snap him to his senses.

He examined the amber in the handle of the sword. How far he had come, from Osbert to Uhtred, son of Uhtred. To Uhtred of Bebbanburg. To Uhtred the Godless, Uhtred of Nowhere, Uhtred of _Wessex_. Uhtred, Alfred’s pet. Uhtred of the Danes. Uhtred Ragnarsson. 

Tears fell and the shaking started as Uhtred remembered the memories he had kept over the course of his life. Without Alfred, without Ragnar... he was tired. Tired, eternal tiredness that needed an eternal sleep.

His mind was made up. He knew that dying this way would not take him into Valhalla, but it might earn him a place in God’s Heaven... or Hell. Maybe the pain that awaited him there was a lot less than what he had encountered here.

He had just raised his sword, pointed towards his chest, until he heard the commotion coming from outside. He sheathed his sword and stood up, leaving his Winchester house to observe the streets.

There were mostly peasants running around, a few men on horseback, but all were shouting the same thing.

“The King has come back to life!”

“The King is back from the dead!”

“Praise Him, God has given our King the gift of life!”

Uhtred almost fell over from the sheer relief he felt wash over him. Still, he could not be certain of this, as rumours travelled easily around Winchester. He began a shaky, long walk to the palace, whereupon he came face to face with Beocca, comforting people outside the doors.

“Beocca! What is this about Alfred coming back to life - is what the people are saying true?”

The priest had tears and a smile upon his face. He placed both hands upon Uhtred’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug, happily sobbing as he did so.

“It’s a God-given miracle, Uhtred. Alfred lives. He is breathing and alive.”

Uhtred gently pulled Beocca off him. “But you sent out news of his death! You said he had no heartbeat!”

The warrior could feel the stinging tears in his eyes return once more, but this time, for a happier reason.

Beocca nodded. “He did die, Uhtred, but he is sat up in his bed as we speak. The King lives!”

And with that, the great Uhtred broke down into tears, sobbing hard, loud and happy at Beocca’s feet.


	3. God’s Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had died. He had seen what was apparently the gateway into Heaven. He had seen _Iseult_ on his brief journey into God’s land and had been cast back into his life, his bed, his England. His brows had never knitted deeper in confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I wanted to make this one a bit longer and more in-depth than the previous chapters, but work has snuck up on me and forced me to publish what I’ve done so far. 
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

Alfred knelt at the altar within Winchester Castle, the cold sensation of the stone on his legs being the only thing that was keeping his mind somewhat anchored in reality. His hands were clasped together in prayer, hands that once shook violently with the pressure of holding them there, yet remained still as his thoughts whipped and rattled against the inside of his skull.

He had died. He had seen what was apparently the gateway into Heaven. He had seen _Iseult_ on his brief journey into God’s land and had been cast back into his life, his bed, his England. His brows had never knitted deeper in confusion.

The ailments he once had, had not returned thus far. The familiar aching of his body, that twinge of stomach pain he knew all too well had not made its presence known since his awakening. He was still weak, weak from the sickness that previously afflicted him and brought him to his death, but he was in a state of improving health. He could only describe it as a miracle, an act performed directly by God himself in order to realise that he still had work left to do on the Earth.

_In Wessex. My England, my love._

He was perplexed, however, and maybe the twist for bringing back his life would be for him to deal with the sheer confusion of this event, the torture of thinking about it over and over until he began to have any inkling of what exactly went on that night. He knew he would never figure it out, as if God intended him to know he would _know_ what lay beyond the figure of Iseult and _why_ she was at Heaven’s gates. Yet all he could do was hypothesise until his time came again.

He rested his forehead on his clasped hands with a sigh, beginning to tire from the energy the sickness had taken from him. It took him a good few days for him to even be able to walk, and now a week had passed and he had the strength to come and pray. To give thanks to God.

He needed to address Winchester, address Wessex, that he was alive and well, and it was not a lie this time. He was... better.

His peace was interrupted by the entrance of Aelswith, who came and knelt beside him, gentle eyes examining his face.

“My Lord, when will you be able to address the people of the word of God’s miracle?”

Alfred cleared his throat, “Soon, by tomorrow’s sunset, I assure you. For now...” He opened his eyes and acknowledged his wife, nodding at no one in particular.

“Bring me Uhtred.”

—+—

Uhtred took Beocca by the arm to hold his attention before he scuttled away for prayer. Again. Most of the town had dedicated their days to prayer since the King's awakening , and Uhtred knew that word of this would have likely reached the Danes by now, who were sure to see this as some kind of bad omen. Needless to say, he was grateful he was not on the Danes' side now, but his impatience was getting the better of him.

"Father Beocca, what do you mean I can't see him? The man wrote me a pardon and then rose from the dead, and you expect me to just stand around and wait for him? Some things never change."

Beocca squinted at the warrior against the blinding spring sun. "Uhtred, the King is still sick, and while he is recovering we must give him the time he needs to gather his strength."

Uhtred sighed and pressed his lips together.

"...But, if it gives you any comfort, I hear that he is to address the people at some point in the near future," The priest gave Uhtred a weary stare. "Besides, I thought you did not care much for him?"

Beocca was referring to the night after the news broke out of Alfred's miracle. The more unholy folk had taken to the taverns and alehouses to celebrate, as celebration was uncommon these days and people would use whatever excuse they could to get drunk. He had taken Finan, Sihtric and Osferth to the alehouse a few yards away from the house they shared, and they had expressed their cheer with many mugs of ale. Finan had brought up Bebbanburg, and Uhtred had responded by slurring that he believed Edward was more likely to help him take back his birthright than Alfred was, followed immediately by the blatant lie that he did not care much for the King.

"Maybe so, Uhtred. But the King has a soft spot for ya, and you can't deny it." Finan had responded, before he staggered up to grab more ale.

Young Ragnar's words rang in his ears.

_"I believe the King of Wessex cares for you."_

He snapped out of his reminiscing and focused on Beocca. "Priest, if you will not let me see him, I'll go to him myself."

"He will call for you when he is ready-"

"Lord, Father," The familiar voice of Steapa came from behind them, face set in the same expression of mild disgust that he always had.

"The King wishes to speak to both of you, at dusk. Don't keep him waiting."

Uhtred shot Beocca a smug smile as the priest gave Steapa a nod, and the large man trudged off, Uhtred watching him as he went.

"Not the most graceful man," The warrior smirked. "I'll bet Leofric could move twice as fast as him, yet not have the patience to go around making house calls for Alfred."

Beocca nodded solemnly. "A bit strange for the Chief of the household guard to make calls, I agree. But I am usually the King's messenger when there are matters concerning you, and I don't think Steapa is exactly bright enough to wander away from his task."

Uhtred laughed and slapped Beocca gently on his back. "So we speak with Alfred tonight."

"You never listen to me, but please remember to show respect."

Uhtred smiled. "It's Alfred," he replied. "He knows I won’t."


End file.
